


Lachesism

by devotchka



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: 2nd Person POV - Chris, Begging, Bruises, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PWP-ish, Painplay, Power Exchange, Pre-RE6, Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, implied aftercare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 10:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: “You’re the first person I couldn’t just bend to my will.”“And what, that gets you off?”“It’s…hard to explain.”





	Lachesism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarkKnutt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarkKnutt/gifts).



> I have this horrible thing right now for writing in the 2nd person POV, someone stop me

Piers kneels at your feet. For once, his fingers move without confidence, and your eyes are sharp enough to pick up on their slight tremble as he works open your pants. It’s absurd, how quickly you got here. How vulnerable he feels like this. How much that turns you on.

Before you, he was a virgin.

He takes his time, dragging his tongue along the length of your cock, swirling it around the head as he strokes with his fist, getting everything as wet as he can manage before finally taking you into his mouth. He makes it about halfway down before you grab a fistful of his hair. You aren’t gentle with him. You haven’t been in weeks. You thrust further into his mouth, and he moans around you.

His hands grab at your legs, as if he’s giving you permission, and you tug him forward until you’re bottoming out. He gags when you hit the back of his throat. You don’t stop. It’s a heavy, greedy thing, watching his face flush and his cheeks dampen with tears.

Piers Nivans, you think – hotshot, overachiever, the BSAA’s rising star – is an absolute slut. At least when it comes to you.

*

Beyond having sex, you do spend time with him where you can manage: a few minutes alone in the office, a shared drink during the occasional Alpha team bar night, those rare opportunities where he can spend the night in your bed. 

That last one is your favorite. Piers is less tense at home than he is as your co-worker. You like learning about him: the books he reads, the bands he listens to, the guilty pleasures he enjoys that don’t revolve around his rifle and his career. You like to spend hours, sometimes, touching him, pushing him to the verge of coming and then back again until he’s practically sobbing under you. You like that being together for longer than a quick hookup means you can give him some form of aftercare when you’re done, even if he acts like he doesn’t want it.

You go to bed one night, and he’s craving closeness. It always starts tentatively, someone reaching out for the other, just a touch. You pull him into you. It’s comfortable, wrapping your arms around him, his head on your chest. When you ask, he tries to explain what keeps him happy with you.

“You’re the first person I couldn’t just bend to my will.” He admits.

“And what, that gets you off?”

“It’s…hard to explain.”

*

Your office offers just enough privacy for the occasional quick fuck. You have Piers bent over your desk, papers and supplies scattered about, his upper body rocking against the hard surface with the force of your thrusts. “I don’t want to hear you,” you’d said when this started, and he didn’t disobey. You can tell – over the sounds of panting and skin against skin – that he’s biting back whimpers and moans you know he’d make were he allowed to.

He’s gripping the edges of your desk like a lifeline. You know he must be aching, and that some complicated, messy part of him adores it.

“Captain,” he says, soft, needy. “Captain, _I’m so close_ …”

You know it’s his way of asking permission to come. You imagine he’s never begged for anything in his life.

“Do you think you deserve it?” you ask.

He hesitates, then admits, “No.”

*

It took Piers four months with Alpha team to rise as your second-in-command. It happened so naturally, like there was never any alternative with someone that flawless among your ranks. Just four months. It’s unprecedented by BSAA standards, but not his own.

In academia and career, he rightfully dominates everything he does.

*

He’s on his stomach, shaking, sweating – still dressed, for the most part, aside from the way his pants are pulled down around his thighs. This isn’t his first time being spanked by you, but it is the first time you’ve pinned him down and used your belt.

He looks exhausted. His skin is deep red in spots, blood welling underneath in a way you’re sure will bruise, and it’s warm to the touch. And yet he is so stubborn.

You pause long enough to show him how hard he’s gotten you, rolling your hips into him, and he can’t hold back his resulting moan. You give him another chance at what you both want, keeping your voice stern. Uncompromising. “Beg me for it.”

He makes sound but not words – just moaning, pleading with his body, the arch of his back and the writhing of his hips.

“I’m not stopping until I hear you.”

You mean it. You’re prepared to be as merciless as you need to be, leaving more bruises and welts in your wake, and as you back off, you’re sure he knows so. You still aren’t expecting the way something in him snaps at the lost contact.

He’s gotten off with your cock down his throat, multiple times. You’ve made him lick come off your boots. The things he’ll do without hesitation shock even you sometimes, but begging isn’t one of them. So when he says _please_ to you, when he stomps down his dignity and begs you to fuck him, you cherish his submission.

*

Piers picks up First Lieutenant meritoriously, because of course he does, and he chooses you to pin on his new rank. The ceremony is brief. The team goes out to celebrate that night; anything’s an excuse to go out drinking on a work night for your men, and they are all quite proud.

You and Piers keep a professional distance from each other when you’re in public like this. You catch him smiling a few times, even laughing once. It feels grossly sentimental.

Sometimes he reminds you of the way you used to be at that age: ambitious and diligent, too passionate for your own good. You tell yourself that the difference is he’s on the right path. He will take the world by storm. He might replace you one day.

Morning threatens to approach by the time the group begins dispersing, and Piers finds you at the bar as you’re closing out your tab. He looks pleased. Maybe a little drunk.

“Good night?”, you ask him. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

He smiles a little at that. Then he says, just between the two of you, “Thank you, Captain. I don’t want to be anything less than the best, apart from one.”

You don’t know what you’ve done to deserve him, or why he admires you so deeply. Whatever it is, you’re incredibly thankful.

“Take me home?”, he asks.

And how could you ever say no?


End file.
